Just Some Dude

Heyyy my name is Corey, I’m 20, I use he/him pronouns and I love writing (mainly poetry and short stories), pretentious music (don’t get me started on music I will seriously never stop haha) and book binding (even tho I’m shit at it).

Pretty much post whatever is going through my head on this blog and that is usually related to bipolar, adhd or my ed as those are the core things I struggle with. I’ve had my ed for six years now and have been overweight, a healthy weight, underweight, and severely underweight and I’m here to tell ya now all of it sucks when you have an ed so if you can get help please do

Please feel free to shoot me a dm/send an ask, but please know I’m not here to be “buddies” or a “coach” if you know what I mean so don’t come asking for that. I’m pro recovery just can’t seem to find it for myself and post here to find people in a similar place and just generally feel less alone.

You were gorgeous, a diamond in a car crash. I picked you up, picked at my nails on the way home, picked to try. On the way home I thought of love, thought of train stations, all the leaving, a child underwater. The sting felt better in my body than around me, so I tried harder, stopped singing on birthdays. Fair game, I thought.

You came with me, kicked your boots off at the door and laid down in the middle of my bed. I took the floor. I like the floor, I thought, with its sturdiness. I’m on the floor and the wall crashes into it at the end of its journey. Secure.

The next morning, I wanted to fall asleep. I sat on the floor and counted the pearly white drops of heaven. You hum a tune in the background, something about kindness, something about my body sprawled out on the gravel, something about the godly light in a hospital. Suffering feels saintly if you pray enough for it to stop. The revolving doors, lukewarm porridge and you, next to me. You, saying that it doesn’t matter.

You mean it.

And you crash into me like you want to ply my skin away, push into my flesh and find home somewhere or other; I liked how visceral you were, made me feel like a display of sticky, sickeningly red blood in a gallery, a baby in a cemetery. That sense of realness, the brightness of a supernova, the depth of a black hole; its too much if you get close but too little on firework night.

You cling to me like you need it, like I’m something worth wanting. But this is the cycle. You want me and I don’t want you.

You’re security, light, my mum coming home swaying. You’re a needle in the hay, a midnight walk, a bucket by my bed,

I’ve always felt really weird when getting compliments from partners or really from anyone. I prefer facts or things they’ve noticed (e.g. being described as smart or kind makes me feel misunderstood but having them say “oh you read a book from that author before” or “you always make sure your sister gets the bigger piece” means a lot).

It’s not the things i do, the things i feel, it’s that im the one doing and feeling them. Everything is ruined by the fact that it’s me.

It’s like there’s something in the core of me that im hiding and hating and i don’t even know what it is and that’s what makes it so awful. It’s not a trait or feature of me it’s something deeper and completely incurable.